Epilogue Five Months Later
Epilogue
Five Months Later
Juniper
“I think they kind of hate each other.” Legs crossed at the ankle, I watched Shakespeare stalk the perimeter of Simon’s enclosure like a panther.
Wrapped in only a towel and still slick from the shower, Callum crouched beside me, flashing an exquisitely muscled thigh through the slit.
Ah, thank the mother for shinty season.
“Tease,” I muttered, fully ogling him.
He winked, dragging me into his lap.
And like an absolute love-sick arsehole, I went willingly, releasing something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.
His arms tucked around my middle, holding me to his damp chest. “Everyone’s still alive, aren’t they? The transition is following the plan perfectly.” The plan .
How could I forget?
Callum had spent weeks researching and then forming the perfect twelve steps to introduce the two animals, including a daily behaviour chart he’d taped to the fridge.
These two needed to get along if I was to move into Callum’s place permanently – which he wanted sooner rather than later.
He was slowly relocating all my skull-shaped mugs.
They sat like little hostages in his kitchen cupboards.
What’s yours is mine, harpy, we are married after all , he just loved to remind me whenever I tried to steal them back.
Not that we’d shared that information with anyone outside this room.
It had been a whim on a random Tuesday last month when we’d taken an overnight trip to Inverness, like all island folk did every now and again to pick up supplies not readily available in our wee stores.
As our first technical “couple trip” – even if it was only Inverness – Callum had gone all out.
A romantic dinner followed by an outrageous hotel room overlooking the river.
I’d taken one look at the claw-foot tub and rose-petal-scattered bed and said, “We should get married today.”
Callum had brought me swiftly back down to earth.
Lounging across the bed like a king, he’d reminded me that no council would offer a same day or even next day wedding licence.
Yet, he hadn’t attempted to disguise the hope in his eyes, or the quiver to his lower lip, when he’d asked in his next breath if I’d consider handfasting with him.
“… it’s an archaic practice and in no way legally binding … but I won’t lie, I love the idea of tying myself to you in every possible sense.”
Who the hell could say no to that?
He’d practically leapt from the bed, dragging us both to our knees on the soft rug before the fireplace.
Extracting the long tie from the fluffy hotel robe, Callum had looped our crossed hands together with the infinity knot.
Those perfect minutes were a blur and yet I knew I’d never forget the way Callum looked.
Eyes shining with so much love I thought my heart might combust beneath the weight of it.
His voice shook around his declaration, nervously confessing he had no clue how a traditional handfasting ceremony was supposed to happen.
That this was a moment so perfect, so impossible, he’d never allowed himself to dream of it.
I couldn’t recall the words I’d spoken in return.
I knew Callum did. That his brilliant brain had locked away every moment of it.
Every breath. Every touch.
It was beautiful and messy and unconventional and so perfectly us .
We planned to make it legal …
eventually. But for now, I adored our little secret.
Just as I knew Callum got off on whispering, wife , in public, on the chance someone might overhear.
The following morning I had a little heart tattooed on my ring finger to commemorate the occasion.
Callum had gotten his first ever tattoo.
Fortanach. Lucky in Gaelic.
Right above his heart.
Locked in the memory, we watched Shakespeare and Simon in silence.
I didn’t hold out much hope for a friendship.
Callum, ever the optimist, insisted it would take a little time.
Like it took you to warm up to me, wife , he’d say.
Usually while kissing my neck.
I’d always reply, We don’t have a decade, husband.
To be fair to Shakespeare, Simon was kind of an arsehole.
Last week he’d nibbled through the toe of my favourite shoe.
Callum claimed he was “temporarily acting out” because of the big changes in his life.
I still thought he was an arsehole.
“All ready for today?” Callum’s fingers tracing up and down my arm brought me back to the present.
I exhaled a nervous puff, the meagre breakfast I’d choked down sitting like a stone in my stomach.
“I’d rather go back to bed. Let’s say we both came down with a stomach bug.”
“And miss the grand reopening of Ivy House? Absolutely not.” He squeezed my waist then bent, breath hot on my ear as he whispered, “I’ll make you a bargain. Today I get to act like a proud, overemotional husband, watching you soak up every moment of praise you so thoroughly deserve. And in return … I’ll let you tie me to the bedframe.” He licked my pulse and I couldn’t contain my tremble.
“Do we have a deal?”
My eyes fell shut, back arching, breasts aching for his hands that remained resolutely at his sides.
“Deal.”
Tonight couldn’t come quickly enough.
Callum
I made it three hours.
Three hours of watching my wife – heels in place, black wide-leg trousers that covered her arse like a second skin, my tattoo on her ring finger – from the other side of the room while she blushed and laughed.
Flashing that obscene smile as she thanked the villagers who’d come out in droves to support the reopening of Ivy House.
Gossip had spread like wildfire the first few weeks of our relationship, locals staring and whispering behind their coffee cups every time we stopped by Brown’s for breakfast. But even in a wee village, gossip grew boring really quick when the people involved made it clear they didn’t give a fuck.
As I’d predicted, Jessica Brown had been thrilled, insisting she’d always known there was something between us.
She must have been clairvoyant, because she claimed to know just about everything that happened around here.
Sipping my slightly warm white wine and fighting the urge to drag Juniper upstairs, I decided it should be illegal for anyone to look that good in business attire.
She’d worked so bloody hard for this moment.
She deserved for it to be all about her.
Ivy House had shut its doors the first week of January, once the Christmas and Hogmanay rush was over, and undergone a complete renovation thanks to Juniper’s freshly acquired business loan.
She’d fought to make every dream in that notebook of hers a reality.
From the solar panels to the wedding gazebo in the wild garden, all ready for their first wedding this coming summer.
I was so fucking proud of her.
When she’d cut through the black ribbon that I’d snuck over and tied across the front door this morning, our families had cheered and clapped while happy tears spilled down her cheeks, getting caught in her smile.
I’d had to wipe at my own damp eyes.
That’s my wife , I’d thought, so completely in love with her.
How I’d gotten this lucky, I would never know, but I wouldn’t take a single moment for granted, wouldn’t waste another day of this life not telling her exactly what I was thinking.
Determined to do just that, I placed my half-drunk wine on the table.
“Be right back,” I said to Heather, feeling only mildly guilty that I’d barely heard a word she’d spoken for the past ten minutes, and cut across the room.
Nodding politely to those I passed, I hooked an arm around Juniper’s waist just as Duncan from the hardware store left her to peruse the food table.
“Fucking proud of you, superstar.”
“Superstar?” Her head tipped against my shoulder, body turning pliant under my touch.
“I think I prefer that to harpy.”
I smiled into her temple.
“What about sweetheart?”
“Definitely not. You only call me sweetheart when you’re feeling all soft.”
“I’m always soft for you.”
“Is that so? Then what’s that poking me in the arse?” She nudged her hips back, emphasising her point.
I grunted, angling my body to disguise it against her hip.
“That is an unfortunate side effect of watching you thrive. I might have a praise kink, I’m so damn proud it’s turning me on.”
She laughed, hands covering her eyes.
“That’s not what a praise kink is.”
I couldn’t care less.
This was my version of a praise kink.
“You can show me later,” I said, ready to move us on to safer subjects, like Hank’s spread of vol-au-vents or Fiona’s tentative new relationship with a tourist she’d met over Christmas, when Juniper pushed onto her tiptoes and whispered in my ear, “Meet me in room five in ten minutes.”
My mouth was still gaping as I watched her climb the stairs, a seductive sway to her hips.
God, she fucking excited me.
Eyes on the clock, I made it to seven minutes.
Heart and cock threatening to tear through my damn clothes to get to her as I took the stairs two at a time.
The thrill of fucking her only a floor above the entire party urging me down the corridor.
Slipping through the door, I found the room quiet and dim, despite the early spring afternoon.
Juniper had closed the curtains and spread out across the bed, head resting on her hand as she drew shapes across the coverlet.
Absolute perfection.
“Alistair didn’t come today,” she said, eyes finding mine.
I stopped short, trying to place her tone.
Talk about boner killer.
“And you’re upset about that?”
“Not upset.” She shrugged.
“Just a little concerned. He’s missed a lot of family events recently. Even your mum dropped by for an hour.”
I was worried about him too, he felt like a different person most days.
There was something …
sad about him now. Guarded.
He hadn’t returned to Glasgow.
Other than to pack up half of his belongings and come straight back.
I’d expected him to leave when things with Dad settled but he remained.
Even going so far as to start working with Mal at the distillery and move into a small cottage on the outskirts of Kinleith.
Anything that wasn’t strictly related to Dad, he found a last-minute excuse to bail.
None of us believed him, but we enjoying having him home too much to push him on the matter.
And frankly, I felt like I had no room to pry into his business, so I let it go.
Perhaps the time had come for me to push.
Loosening my tie, I stalked toward the bed.
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Happy?” I balled the tie, dropping it beside her hip.
“Yes.” Juniper picked it up, running the dark green silk between her fingers.
“Do I get to tie you to the bedpost now?”
I grinned and it felt exactly like us.
A little vicious. A little out of control.
“Later. First, I want your back against the door so everyone downstairs can hear it rattle.”
“Romantic.” She hopped to her feet, every line of her sleek and perfect.
“Romance is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Clive?”
“I regret telling you that,” I said, guiding her into position and flicking open the buttons of her shirt.
“You don’t mind when I shout it in bed.”
Pausing just as my favourite lacy blue bra came into view, I pinched her chin between my thumb and forefinger.
“I mean this in the most loving way possible, but, sweetheart, when I’m between your legs my dead grandmother could start tap dancing on the side table and I wouldn’t notice.”
“That is …” She squinted.
“Fucked up?”
“Weirdly hot, actually. You’re right, we should probably fuck against the door.” She curled her arms around my neck, readying to jump into my arms.
But I held her steady and dropped to my knees, tugging her trousers and underwear as I went, so she was gloriously bare to me.
“Not so fast, I want to live up to my favourite alter ego first.”
She grinned, eyes dancing with that mischief that had drawn me in from the very beginning.
Even when it shouldn’t.
“Whatever you say, Ken.”
My eyes found hers, right before I licked her tattoo.
“Dig those nails in my back and scream for me, harpy, I’m feeling lucky.”